


Dick Planet, Boy Detective

by Vera



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1998-01-01
Updated: 1998-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:23:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera/pseuds/Vera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written in 1998, the title has pretty much nothing to do with the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dick Planet, Boy Detective

"Hey Sandburg," Jim called down, "coming to the gym?"

Blair carefully finished his mouthful of toast.

"No, thanks. I have some papers to grade."

"Sandburg, it's Sunday. You can't work on a Sunday."

"Wrong faith, Jim. Besides, a grad student's work is never done."

Blair hoped that would be the end of it. The only time he'd worked out with his partner had been a disaster. Spotting for Jim, a seemingly innocent task, had been a mistake. Looking down he got an eyeful of the Ellison body laid out in all its muscular glory, flexing and rippling, sweat running in slow rivulets down Jim's neck, his to die for face grimacing in exertion, just as it surely would in sexual extremis. To avoid being caught slavering over this feast, Blair looked up... into the mirror that covered one entire wall of the room. Looked at his own breathless expression, at how close his crotch was to Jim's straining face, at ...

"Sandburg, hey, snap out of it." Jim was waving a hand in front of his face. "Good night last night, Chief?"

Blair focused on the hand. What was he talking about? "Yeah, sure Jim." Time to make some of my own rules, he thought, number one: no fantasising while the object of said fantasies is on the premises. He looked up.

Jim was pulling a sweat shirt over his muscle tee, 14 short I-could-lean-over-and-bury-my-face-in-his-chest inches from Blair's face. He forced wide eyes up to Jim's face. Jim was smiling at him, looking like a promo for At Home With Mr America.

"Well, if I can't convince you to come," Jim said, "I guess I'll see you later."

"Sure Jim, later." Please don't ruffle my hair, Blair thought, oh God, he ruffled my hair. Who'd've thought there were direct scalp-to-penis nerves? Why can't you just fake a punch at my arm, Jim? It's so much more the guy thing to do. Why do you have to be so damn warm and affectionate and big brotherly?

Blair took a deep breath, heard the door click shut behind Jim and collapsed onto the table, missing his plate by a whisker. He had it bad. It wasn't as though he hadn't got any last night. She'd been an adventurous and friendly young woman. Very friendly. How could he possibly be getting it up again so soon? He couldn't remember it being this bad when he was sixteen.

It had been worse when Jim was spotting for him. Not just the embarrassingly smaller weights, but when Jim was leaning over him, he was mesmerised by a trickle of sweat running down Jim's neck, over his collarbone. At one point the line of sweat stopped running and started to form a drop that he knew, just knew was going to fall on his lips. He was speechless with anticipation, then Jim straightened up and moved away. It was all Blair could do not to reach out and wipe it off with his finger, he was so desperate to taste Jim. That had been the moment he decided that weight training was not for him. Not in this lifetime.

Jim had been on the, what was it called, seat thingie with leg weights, when Blair snuck off to shower. He'd been in no condition to share a shower with Jim. The man had no sense of propriety when it came to nudity. He'd worked that last bit out living with the guy. If only Jim would learn to finish dressing before he came down stairs. Yeah right, man, he jeered at himself, you know you live for sneaking a perve at the Ellison body. Oh God. If Jim were a woman you'd be ashamed of yourself. If Jim were a woman he wouldn't be walking around bare-chested. If Jim were a woman you wouldn't be overcome with the desire to rub your whole body against Jim's perfect, smooth, muscled one till we both came so hard we saw stars.

The image of Jim's broad chest formed again in his mind's eye, the rippling abs, the tender hard curve of stomach. Blair imagined the fine skin stretched over his groin and a hard dick, oh baby, that muscle. He realised he was jerking off at the kitchen table. What if Jim found out? But Jim wasn't going to find out, Jim couldn't find out. Or he, Blair Sandburg, would be one dead guy. Dead from terminal embarrassment. He could just imagine Jim being indulgent about it, as he was with so many things he identified as The Sandburg Zone. 'Got a hard on for me Chief?' he'd chuckle, 'That's dedication to research above and beyond the call.' Then he'd share a look with Simon. And ruffle his hair. Aargh. He abandoned his breakfast and went back to bed. At least with Jim out of the loft he wouldn't have to muffle the noise he preferred to make.

He shucked his boxers and flopped onto his bed. He wrapped a hand around his cock and pushed up his tee. No reason to get it icky. Visions of Jim rushed back in to fill the lust sucking void that he'd previously called a mind. He considered his options. Malibu Jim in form fitting wetsuit, begging to be peeled off? Muscle Jim, damp-patched sweats clinging to his ass and thighs? Kevlar Jim? No contest. He never thought it when he was on the ground and scared, for Jim, for himself, for the other cops and innocent bystanders. But when the rush was over, he realised that all he wanted to do was bend Jim over the hood of the truck, undo those ultra butch pants and fuck him into next week.

"Jim," he murmured, squeezing the base of his cock and sliding his hand up. "Jim," his voice caught as he ran his hand over the glans. "Jim," he whispered, smoothing pre-ejaculate down the shaft. "Jim," he sighed, imaging the firm curve of ass in front of him, saw his dick parting the cheeks, no preparation, no lube, entering perfect and zipless first time. "Jim," he cried out loud.

A loud knocking shattered the vision of sweating, writhing, moaning Jim impaled on his dick.

"Shit." Dragging his clothes into order, he staggered to the door and opened it to find Simon and Daryl beaming at him.

"Sandburg," bellowed Simon, sweeping his gaze over Blair, missing none of his dishevelled state or the impressive tent in his thin boxers. Daryl's eyes bugged, he looked as if he couldn't have torn his eyes from Blair's groin had he been offered the latest Playstation game to beta test.

If aliens chose this moment to abduct him, Blair would have been eternally grateful.

"Uh, Simon, Daryl."

"Sorry to disturb you, Blair," Simon said cheerfully, but not at all regretfully, "Jim in? He said he'd loan his fishing tackle to Daryl this weekend."

"No, no Simon, Jim's not here. He's at the gym. Hey, that rhymes, gym, Jim. How 'bout that?" Blair was embarrassingly aware he was babbling and Simon's grin broadened. "He... it's... you know where it is Simon," getting a grip on his words he stepped aside to let them in, erection bouncing and, thank Shiva, God of Erect Penises, softening in his boxers. He could almost hear his dick talking to him. What have I told you?, it kvetched, don't answer the door when we're busy, man!

He thought he'd never get them out of the loft. Simon insisted on checking each piece of equipment. "You know how Jim cares about his gear," he told Blair brightly.

"Yeah, Simon, and he trusts you with it. Look, man, I uh, have to be getting out to the U."

"On a Sunday, Blair?" Simon was only a few smirks short of outright chortling.

"Well, Simon," Blair's voice was tight with rising frustration, "a grad student's work is never done."

"We'll get this stuff loaded and get out of your," Simon paused a shade longer than imperceptibly, "hair. Daryl," he handed his keys over, "you go ahead and open the car. Blair and I'll bring this."

"Right, Dad," was all Daryl managed to say before dragging his eyes from Blair and fleeing the scene. Blair was relieved he was no longer prime Show and Tell exhibit for curious teenagers.

It was on the tip of his tongue to refuse to help, but his good humour reasserted itself. One day, he thought, there'll be someone in my life I can tell this story to. And it'll be funny.

Funny? he could hear his dick gripe. I don't think so.

Blair was eyeball deep in paper when Jim returned.

"What did Simon want, Chief?"

"How did?"

Jim tapped his nose.

"Yeah, my mind must be out to lunch." Blair smiled. "Fishing gear."

"Right." He poured himself juice, then came and stood looking over Blair's shoulder, setting a hand on the back of the chair.

"Beating back the tide?"

"Jim, I am like King Canute here. I'm sure we don't have this many students." Blair glanced up to find Jim so far into his space he could smell his breath, sweet and tart with juice.

"Will it bother you if I watch TV?"

He was fascinated by the way Jim's lips moved.

"Chief?"

"What? No, go ahead Jim. We Generation X-ers thrive on unlimited stimulation, ah, stimuli."

Jim grinned and, oh Jesus, ruffled his hair. Seconds later he was stretched out on a sofa flicking through the channels. Using discipline he didn't know he had, Blair refrained from telling Jim what he could do with the hair ruffling routine. He so didn't want to get into the reason why. Not while it was nudging his fly, reminding him that they had unfinished business.

Blair wished he hadn't sat facing the windows. It was fine, being able to look out and imagine himself away from his appointed role in an assessed universe. Now he was only able to think of Jim sitting behind him, humming along to the ad breaks, chuckling as his channel surfing turned up some old Three Stooges movie. If Jim had just settled on one show, Blair would have been able to tune it out, but just as he started to concentrate on the paper in front of him, Jim would switch channels again, the noise level would change and Blair's attention would be dragged back to the man behind him. Frustration fuelling paranoia, he couldn't help but suspect it was deliberate.

"Hot beverage, Chief?"

Startled Blair turned awkwardly on the chair, scraping it's legs across the floor. "Um, that'd be nice, Jim. Coffee?"

"Sure, but take a break with me here, you've been at that for hours."

Even though the guy drove him bananas, Blair couldn't help himself. He just wanted to be with Jim, making coffee in their kitchen. He felt pathetic, but got up and walked over to the kitchen bench anyway. Leaning against it, he stretched his shoulders and neck to ease some of the stiffness. A break was a good idea. Drinking coffee with Jim was an ergonomically sensible decision. Whatever you gotta tell yourself, his little friend jeered.

Jim finished setting up the coffee maker and stepped over to Blair. "Here Chief, let me." He brushed Blair's hands off his neck and started massaging the tight muscles. It was the last straw. Blair jerked away from him, banging his hip on the bench.

"What is it with you Ellison? Why are you so damned touchy feely? A guy with your background should be repressed to the point of needing therapy!"

"Sandburg, what are you talking about?"

"God, Jim, you had a repressive, abusive father, no mother, a fucked relationship with your brother. You were in the goddamn military. You're a cop for fuck's sake! Why are you so comfortable hugging me? Why are you always touching me? It's unnatural." Blair's rant ran down.

Jim walked over to the sofa and sat down. Looking at his tight clasped hands, Jim's cheeks were flushed red. He undid the knot of his fingers, reached for the remote and turned the TV off. Spoiling for a fight, Blair followed him.

"Well whaddayaknow, Chief," he said quietly, "therapy works."

Jaw dropping, Blair shifted track, "You've been in therapy?"

"You know it's compulsory for cops who've been in traumatic situations." He almost smiled, his next words wry, "I've been in a lot of traumatic situations."

"But I've never been to a police shrink."

"You haven't shot anyone."

"So, in order to deal with having popped a few bad guys, you grope me?"

"Yeah," Jim's voice trailed off. "No, that's not what I meant! I don't grope you Chief."

Blair snorted disbelief.

"Don't loom over me like that! Sit down and I'll explain."

His brain reeling a little at the idea of 'looming' over Jim, Blair sat gingerly distant from Jim on the sofa. Then, realising his own body language, he crossed his arms and sat back firmly, but still leaving plenty of space between them.

"Go ahead. Make it good."

"Before you came along to help me I was really strung out, Blair. Hell, you know that." Jim paused. "It's because we share a secret. I mean, I trust you to keep my secret, and to help me. You know what's going on with me, when it looks to the rest of the world like I'm going crazy. You protect me from that misunderstanding and I know that without that protection I could be in deep shit. People might think I was autistic or schizophrenic or God knows what. I just want to make the connection between us. It," Jim looked a little embarrassed, "makes me feel better to touch you."

"You don't know what you do to me Jim," Blair muttered. How could you stay angry at your best friend when they opened up to you like that? How could he be such a bastard? He wasn't sure if he meant himself or Jim.

"Yeah, I do Chief."

Blair turned startled eyes on him.

"What?"

Jim's smile was made of bashfulness and certainty.

"Yeah, I do. I watch you like a hawk, Blair. I watch you like a Sentinel. I know what I do to you."

He picked up Blair's wrist and felt for the pulse. "When I move into your personal space, your heartbeat accelerates like it's doing now, but you're not afraid of me, are you Blair?" There was a hint of a question inside the surety. Blair could only shake his head. Jim wasn't letting go of his arm.

"Dilated pupils," Jim continued to catalogue, looking deep into Blair's eyes. He ran his free hand through the air in front of Blair's body, "increased body temperature, tsss." He pulled his hand away, mock burned, when he reached Blair's groin. "But mostly," he continued, smoothly moving to straddle Blair's lap, letting go of Blair's wrist and resting his hands on the back of the couch, caging Blair loosely, "mostly it's the way you call my name when you jerk off."

"Whoa, stop right there Jim, time out man." He pushed Jim off his lap, though in a corner of his mind his dick was shrieking, Time OUT? Are you CRAZY?

Jim landed on his ass on the floor and sat there smiling goofily up at Blair.

"Jim that is the most disgusting," Hot, his dick chimed in, "perverted, outrageous," sexy, horny, it continued, "underhanded, deceitful," fucking spectacularly amazing "stalker thing to do. Shit. I expected better from you, man."

It occurred to him that not only did his body disagree with his brain, his brain, slowly frying under Jim's fond expression, was defecting from the path of righteous indignation.

"If it were anyone else, you'd arrest them," Blair said, trying for an expression of betrayed trust.

"If it were anyone else," Jim replied smugly, "they wouldn't be able to do it."

He thought of Jim, lying alone in his big bed upstairs, stretching his senses out to gather in Blair, while he jerked off. He thought of how unnaturally quiet he'd trained himself to be, though mostly he waited till Jim was out of the loft. Waited till Jim was out of the loft. He never made any sound if he thought Jim was awake in the loft. He never made a sound.

"You didn't go to the gym this morning."

"No, I --"

"You deliberately spied on me."

"Blair, I --"

"Must have been a disappointment when Simon and Daryl arrived."

"Actually, I --"

"Spoiled your fun, did they?"

Our fun, his dick reminded him.

Blair stopped shouting. He'd berated the goofy smile off Jim's face. His partner and roommate was sprawled on his ass looking solemnly up at him, his shirt stretched across his muscled chest as he breathed, obviously erect inside snug jeans. Blair wanted to eat him up and beat him up. He was so angry and so turned on, still frustrated from this morning's ups and downs, he was almost afraid of what he'd do if he laid a hand on Jim. But he was on the crest of an emotional wave and he had to ride it out. And he was damned if he was going to ignore another erection. Not now.

Blair lifted his hips, unzipped his jeans and pushed them down to free his dick. "Is this what you want to see, Jim?"

His penis, exposed, was long, hard and throbbing against his belly. He kicked his jeans off and spread his legs so Jim wouldn't miss a single twitch or throb.

Jim's eyes went black and he stopped breathing. Blair stroked himself, pulled up his shirt to run a hand over his stomach and down to his balls. He breathed deep and sharp and that seemed to kick start Jim's breathing.

"Want to see this up close, Jim?" Blair couldn't believe he was doing this in front of Jim, couldn't believe that Jim was watching. It was more arousing than any model Jim fantasy. The guy of his dreams was sprawled before him, submitting to major teasing.

"Is this what you wanted, alone in bed, Jim?" Blair cradled his balls. "Didn't you want more?" He ran his fingers up his shaft. "Did you like it when I did this?" He smoothed a finger through pre-ejaculate and brought it to his lips.

"Blair," Jim was on his knees reaching out a hand.

"Uh uh, Jim. No touching. That's not how you play this game. Your rules, my friend." Blair's voice was trembling as he stroked himself.

"Blair." Jim was pleading, his hands just above Blair's wide spread knees.

"No way, Jim. You got this whole scopophilia thing happening," his breath hitched, rhythm changing as his body reached toward orgasm, " I don't wanna rain on your parade, man."

"What?"

"OK, Jim," he panted, "words of one," pleasure, a warm sea, surged up through his body, "one syllable. You like," his toes were curling, "to watch. Oh God. To watch me."

"Blair, please." Muscles clenched, Jim was a vibration of restrained strength and pleading submission. Triumph beat in Blair's blood. He was doing this to Jim; he could make him beg. Eyes locked, unable to close them against Jim's intense stare, Blair relented.

"Come here," his voice a low growl, he leaned forward and grabbed Jim by the belt, dragging him close. Jim stumbled forward on his knees, hands finally touching, coming to rest on Blair's thighs to steady himself.

"Blair." Heat and delight sparked through their connection. God help me, Blair thought wildly, if he ever touches anything more sensitive than my knees.

"Don't talk, just let me," he unbuckled Jim's belt, unzipped his jeans and pushed them down. Jim's penis, hard, cut, red, wet with pre-ejaculate and Blair was holding it in his hand. Jim groaned and dug his fingers into Blair's thighs.

Shifting further down the seat, he pushed his groin against Jim's, wrapping long fingers around both their dicks. Blair looked down at them, his and Jim's, held together by his moving hand. He was jerking them off, Jim hot against him. He could feel Jim's pulse through his dick. Jim's dick was in his hand. That was Jim's pubic hair, dark and curling around Jim's balls, and arrowing up Jim's hard, smooth belly. Jim.

The thought connected, he looked up at Jim in shock. When their eyes met, he came harder than he ever had in his entire life. "Oh, God," he moaned, rough and dark and deep.

"Blair, don't stop." Trying to hold his soul within his body, Blair stroked once, twice and then Jim was coming too, ejaculate on his fingers and on his thighs.

"Jim, man."

"Blair." Jim was holding his shoulders; Jim was kissing him. Jim's tongue was in his mouth. Dizzily, Blair wondered what planet the aliens had transported him to.

With any luck it was the Black Spandex Planet of Malibu Jims.


End file.
